


opening the car door for light

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22669867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: Steve is still dating Nancy, and by the time he realizes its the reader he’s in love with, it may be too late
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 73





	opening the car door for light

Though Nancy has assured Steve more times than he can count that there’s nothing between her and Jonathan Byers, the pair have grown closer over the last year, sometimes seeming closer even than Nancy and Steve. He pretends it doesn’t bother him, shakes off the postponed plans and half-baked excuses.

He knows she isn’t cheating on him, but there’s more to infidelity than just the physical. He can see it in the way her gaze follows him when he passes them in the hall, in the hall-empty excuses she makes when he cancels on her.

“Maybe going to this party is a bad idea,” he grumbles, shoving open his bedroom door, tossing his bag on the ground and flopping face-first onto his bed. A step behind him, you tug the door shut behind you and set your backpack beside his deserted one. You make your way to the bed, climbing up beside him and pulling your legs beneath you.

“The party will be a good chance to figure out where you two stand. Alcohol tells all,” you say. At his grumbled reply, you reach out to nudge his shoulder, and he rolls onto his back, folding his arms against his chest, letting out a huffing breath.

“And if I hate what I find out?”

You purse your lips; Steve Harrington is your best friend, and above all, you want him to be happy. Happy and healthy and loved and wanted. And as much as you care for Nancy Wheeler as a friend, Steve doesn’t deserve the cold shoulder she flips on and off around him with no warning. He doesn’t deserve the confusion or the ambiguity.

You want him to be happy. And if he can’t - doesn’t _want to_ \- do that with you, you’ll settle for someone who treats him like the sun shines out of his ass, and nothing less. As of the last two months, Nancy Wheeler is not that person.

“Then, you know.” You slide a food out to nudge his leg. “Isn’t it better to just know?”

“Not if she stomps my heart into a million pieces.”

“It wouldn’t be a million,” you say. “Maybe a hundred thousand.”

The half-hearted joke earned a mirthless laugh, and Steve sat up, raking a hand through his hair. His brows knitted together, lips pulled in a thin line, his conflicting emotions evident in his features.

“What the hell am I supposed to do if she dumps me? I already dropped Tommy and Carol and their merry band of assholes. I’ll have nothing left.”

“What am I,” you retort, cocking a brow, “chopped liver?”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re different.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not worried about you going anywhere. We’re kinda stuck together, at this point.”

“A bold assumption.”

Steve laughs, eyes a little brighter than they were just minutes ago, and cool relief courses through your veins. You can see the lights at the end of this road and would be willing to bet there’s an accident waiting, one that will slice through what Steve and Nancy have built over the last year. You would never admit it to him, but you’ve known where this was going - suspected, at least - far longer than Steve has even been suspicious.

“Don’t be coy. We all know you’re obsessed with me,” he teases. Your stomach flips, fear yawning open inside you; _he knows_. _He knows, knows how you feel, knows what you want_. To your infinite relief, though, he continues, “I mean, who could blame you. I have won a few best friend of the year, awards,” he says with a wink. You snort a laugh.

“I _awarded_ you when we were six,” you point out.

“And seven,” he adds. “And eight.”

“I shouldn’t have fed your ego from such a young age. Maybe you wouldn’t be so damn annoying.”

“You’re a shit liar,” he says. You narrow your eyes.

“Don’t make me revoke your best friend of the year title.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Like I said,” he alleges, “ _shit liar_.”

* * *

You’re standing at your locker, fishing through the messy pile of folders and textbooks in search of your Spanish book, which you’ve already lost three separate times. You don’t have another $50 to hand over for another _fucking_ Spanish 101 book.

Coming up empty, you let out a huff of frustration and slam the locker shut, the force shaking the metal.

“What’d that locker do to you?” You turn to find a boy from your grade - Jacob Jackson - leaning against the locker beside yours, arms crossed casually, lips quirked up in a welcoming smile. You’ve had a few classes with him, and know him to be kind and decently funny.

“It keeps eating my textbooks,” you say, jerking a chin toward the traitorous metal box. “Costing me a fortune.”

“Wow,” he says, playing along, his grin widening. “Big appetite.”

“ _Expensive_ appetite,” you reply. A pink flush creeps across Jacob’s cheeks, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s nervous. Continually shifting his weight, cheeks red, hands fluttering to rake through his hair or palm the back of his neck or jammed into his pockets.

“You know,” he says, clearing his throat, “I think we’re in the same section. I’ve got the textbook if you ever want to get together and do some homework.”

Anxiety unfolds in your gut, uncomfortable but not wholly unpleasant. You’ve spent so many years tailing behind Steve, wishing desperately he’d figure out what you’d known since you were twelve, when you fell in love with him before you even knew what love was. Your attention has been exclusively pointed at the recently fallen King of Hawkins High for as long as you can remember.. But this, this boy smiling and blushing at you the way you’d wanted Steve to for years, was what you’d wanted, even if it wasn’t technically the right person.

“I’d like that,” you say. “I might actually pass the semester.”

Jacob smiles, and you have to admit he’s handsome - perhaps a little too pretty, too put together, lacking the blemishes you’ve memorized on Steve, like his crooked nose and cowlicked hair and the tiny scars you’d cleaned and bandaged yourself.

He parts his lips to speak but is interrupted by a random Steve, who sidles up next to you, standing closer than necessary, almost protectively. He planted one palm against the metal locker, arm behind you, clearly making the separation between you and him and Jacob, who’s natural smile had dissipated the moment Steve arrived.

“Harrington,” he says curtly. Steve gives a shit-eating grin, one you only know is fake because you know _him_. You can see the tightness in his jaw, the simmering anger in his eyes, the taut pull of his shoulders. But what you don’t understand is why, where the frustration came from.

“Jack,” Steve responds. Jacob’s teeth clench.

“Jacob,” he corrects sharply. Steve shrugs and waves a hand dismissively.

“Same thing.”

Jacob bristles, opening his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted again by Steve, who cocks a brow and fixes him with a cool look.

“Don’t you have a class to get to or something?” He asks, as if he couldn’t care less what Jacob does; like he’s no more than a flea, a nuisance. Frustration coils inside your gut, and you give Jacob an apologetic smile.

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” You ask. Jacob flicks a cold glance at Steve, but his eyes soften when he meets your gaze, giving a tiny smile before turning and heading down the hallway in the direction he’d come.

You turn your attention to Steve, fixing him with a cold glare.

“What the hell was that?” You snapped. He lifted his brows in a show of innocence, but at your narrowing eyes, he shrugged, leaning against the lockers.

“Jacob Jackson? Seriously?”

“Seriously, what?”

“He’s a tool. You shouldn’t waste your time on someone like that.”

“And who should I waste it on?” You counter, the truth edging its way up your throat, scrabbling for purchase and desperate to push out. You forced it back, folding your arms tightly against your chest.

“Not him,” Steve says, shaking his head. “He’s…”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s none of your business who I go out with.” The words are sharp and cruel, and though Steve’s persona is carefully constructed, you see the impact on his guarded walls in the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“Besides. People who live in glass houses…” you trail off, and Steve frowns, straightening.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you say. “When you stop following your girlfriend around like a lost puppy, you might see what everyone else does.”

“And what’s that?” He asks, his tone colder than he’s ever used with you before. You rise against it, frustration and annoyance taking precedence over the inevitable hurt you’ll feel later.

“That Nancy Wheeler is done with you,” you say coolly, “and you’re just to blind to see it.”

He takes the words like punches, flinching back, expression souring and hardening. At that moment, he looks like the reputation he fought so hard for and lost. A cold, unforgiving, cocky eighteen-year-old boy. Not the boy you grew up with, your best friend.

You don’t stick around for what will inevitably be a slicing retort, spinning on your heels and slipping through the throng of students in the hall, letting your feet take you as far from Steve Harrington as physically possible.

* * *

Though you didn’t believe your neighbor Dustin’s ludicrous story about the miniature version of the creature you’d all faced a year prior, the moment you got a look at the carnage he’d wreaked in the Henderson’s yard - dug up grass, droplets of blood dried into the dirt, the skin that looked like something a reptile would shed - you were on board.

While Dustin went off to look for help, you were left with babysitting duty; more pressing, as said baby was not a baby, but a miniature Demogorgon. Easy peasy. As long as the creature stayed in the cellar, behind the chains and locks. Which, if you had any experience with weird things in Hawkins, it certainly would not.

You pace in front of the wooden slabs leading down to the cellar, ears perked for any noise from below. It had been silent for at least ten minutes, and the quiet was somehow more unsettling than the cacophonous ruckus behind the door.

After what feels like an eternity, a car pulls into Dustin’s driveway, his bike sticking out the open trunk. The red Beemer pulls into park, and Dustin climbs out of the passenger seat, followed by Steve Harrington.

Steve, who you haven’t spoken to since your fight in the hallway a week ago. Steve, who had his heart ripped to pieces by Nancy at the very party you’d encouraged him to go to. Steve, who is looking at you with an expression so full of emotions it’s near indecipherable.

“You’re joking,” you tell Dustin, who saunters over to join you. Steve tugs his bike out of the back, leaning it against the grass, before pulling out his trademark studded-bat and coming to stand with you and Dustin. You inch away from him instinctively, and the stilling of his frame indicates he notices.

“More the merrier, right?” Dustin asks.

“That’s not, like, a given, dude,” Steve says. Dustin shrugs and pats his pockets, a frown tugging down on his lips.

“Shit. I left the keys inside. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone, yeah?” He asks, giving you both an accusatory look, turning toward the house.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned with the baby Demogorgon in your cellar?” You ask. Dustin looks between you, pursing his lips for a moment before saying, “No,” and heading toward his house.

His departure leaves a thick, tense silence hanging between you, the air knotting like a noose around your neck.

“I heard what-” “I’m sorry for-” You both speak at once, cutting each other off, pausing with flushed cheeks and racing hearts.

“Look, I…” Steve says, letting out a breath. “I was a complete and total asshole. And I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you say. “And I’m sorry about…Nancy.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “You were right. It is better to know. Hurts like a son of a bitch, but…”

“I’m sorry,” you say. He drops his gaze, scuffing at the loose dirt with the toe of his sneaker. Whatever he’s left unsaid hangs between you, and you force yourself to wait, to let him continue.

“I shouldn’t have gotten in the way, with you and Jacob. If you want to go out with that second-string-” at your cocked brow, Steve amends himself. “That _great_ guy, then you should.”

“Why did you get in the way?” You ask, unable to stop poking at the bubble that will inevitably burst and burn you. He continues messing with the dirt, shrugging half a shoulder. After a beat, he looks up, holding your gaze in a vice grip.

“Because I don’t want you to go out with Jacob Jackson,” he says. “Or anyone else.”

The excuses you’ve used to keep yourself sane and safe over the past years roll through your mind like film credits: he loves Nancy, he’d never go for you, it’s not like you have the same plans after college so it couldn’t work out anyway, etc., etc. But his soft expression derails the train of thought and sends it careening off the track, your long-held excuses falling with it.

“Did you have someone else in mind?” You ask. His lips curl up in the tiniest of smiles, eyes shy. He steps toward you, and when you move back, he steps closer, closer, until he’s a foot away from you.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.” His hands move to cup your cheeks, his thumb tracing soft lines along your cheekbones, touch almost unbearably gentle. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”

The butterflies in your belly explode to life, your heart racing and your legs wobbly. You resist the urge to pinch yourself to make sure you’re really awake.

“Luckily,” you say, hands settling against his chest, his heartbeat quick and steady beneath your fingers, “you’re not too late.”

“No?”

“No,” you say, and stretch up on your toes, pressing your lips to his. He stills for a half-second before reacting, his hands sliding down to wind around your waist and tug you against him, his lips parting against yours.

The kiss breaks the sky open, and takes your heart with it, renaming all the constellations after the boy in your arms, weaving his name into the stars. Your heart beats loud in your ears, so loud you’re surprised Steve can’t hear, and his own pulse is frantic beneath your touch.

It is making up for lost time and setting a place for all the next times; all the kisses that come next.

Because, and this is one of the very few things you’re sure of, there will be more. You can’t say much about anything else; about the Demogorgon or the gate or whether or not you’ll manage to pass high school. But you know with absolute certainty that, whatever it is on the road ahead, you’ll face it with Steve by your side.


End file.
